


bring back the good

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation, Friends to Enemies, M/M, Manipulation, Poor Life Choices, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-31 05:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: Sometimes, you just can't let go.Or: the Tower Bridge Remix No One Asked For.





	bring back the good

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for our server's porn battle with a prompt that basically boiled down to hate sex. I didn't quite hit all the suggested additional elements. It's rusty and not at all what I planned to write, but if you're here, I hope it's to your liking!

“Fire! All the drones! _NOW!_”

Quentin’s well aware he’s allowed himself to be baited. By a teenager. Unfortunately, he’s long past the point of being able to summon the self-discipline to care.

He watches in mounting rage as the kid demolishes every drone that hurtles towards him along the catwalk. He barely feels the bullet that catches him in the side of his gut, but it takes him to his knees, regardless. 

By the time the world slows enough for him to process anything that’s happening, Peter’s standing over him in the glasses like a righteous little simulacrum of Stark himself. The kid’s beaten and bloody but he’s still standing. It’s impressive. Even Quentin’s capable of admitting that much. All that stubborn fire shoved into such a small package. Good thing the downed drones are recording every second of this for splicing and editing later.

“I _trusted_ you,” Peter says again, deviating from the script they’d been following up till that point.

He looks utterly heartbroken. Devastated. Like he just had to witness the deaths of his little friends, despite the fact that he’s already saved the day. How odd.

Before Quentin can react, the kid’s crouching down and _ripping_ the torn section of his suit open. Right. Super spider-strength, or whatever it is. At least this suit is already a lost cause at this point, he thinks muzzily. Too much blood to bother trying to get it out.

“The hell-”

“Shut up.” Peter’s expression is hard, now, and Quentin finds himself fascinated by the way the kid’s lower lip trembles ever so slightly as he pulls something out of the waistband of his suit and presses it into the wound he’s gone and exposed.

Quentin grits his teeth with a snarl, but Peter just shoves his shoulder back against the railing with the effortless ease of someone infinitely stronger than you’d take them for. Quentin didn’t get a good enough look at whatever it was Peter snagged from his little spider-belt but he can only assume it’s something Avengers-related. Probably some experimental field medicine bullshit. Where’d he even _get_ a new suit is beyond Quentin.

“Just couldn’t let me slip away that easy, huh?” Quentin offers a faintly cloying smile, tracking every microexpression flickering across Peter’s face.

The kid doesn’t answer him immediately, which speaks volumes by itself. He’s thinking and piecing words together instead of just lobbing what he probably hopes is a cutting insult and letting it hit where it may. Then: “You don’t deserve the easy way out.”

Oh. Is that so, Peter Parker?

Their gazes stay locked for a solid ten seconds and Quentin finds himself fascinated by the subtle differences in the cast to Peter’s pretty hazel eyes. They’d been so bright and guileless in Prague. So full of glittering wonder at the promise of the existence of the multiverse theory that it nearly made him want to puke. Now, there’s a harder, flintier edge to that gaze. Not so much a loss of innocence as the aftermath of a revelation. 

Quentin revels in it. It could’ve been anyone, in the end, but that was _his_ doing. Peter Parker will look back on when he started letting the world walk all over him a little less and all roads will lead back not to Tony Stark, not to the Avengers, but to Quentin fucking Beck.

He grins faintly, showing a hint of teeth. Peter’s expression darkens and he moves to perch himself over Quentin’s thighs, glaring at him from much closer than before.

“Gonna web me up for Fury?” He taunts softly, enraptured with the way Peter’s attention has taken on such a laser-focused quality. “Nice little neatly wrapped bad guy, right? Ride off into the sunset with MJ?”

The small hand that grabs hold of his jaw with enough pressure to have him wondering if Peter’s planning on tearing it right out of his skull only fractionally startles him.

“_Don’t_.”

The kid’s panting like he’s just sprinted the length of the bridge, but Quentin can practically smell the adrenaline pouring off him. He’s not scared. He’s angry, just as he should be. Good boy.

He reaches for Peter’s wrist but Peter’s free hand grabs hold of his instead, pinning it back against the catwalk’s siding. The movement brings them even closer and Quentin finds himself treated to the sight of Peter’s ears reddening by degrees as he takes in their proximity. It doesn’t seem like he’s realizing where they are for the first time, but maybe that he’s really taken the steps necessary to get them here and probably regrets it. 

Quentin didn’t even have to say a word.

The hand on his jaw eventually slides lower, settling firmly at the base of his throat. Oh, the kid really isn’t taking any chances. _Good_. Ever a quick learner, this one.

Then, Peter drops his full weight into the cradle of his hips and Quentin bites out a harsh sound through fully bared teeth. Fucking hell. The agony of the entry wound had faded for a bit there with Peter’s little fancy whatevers, but it’s back at full volume now. Peter doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to it, though Quentin glares at him as a slim spandexed thigh shoves forward against his side. 

“Steady there, cowboy.” He grunts, shifting his weight as he tests the strength of the grip Peter’s keeping him pinned with.

No give. He’s not going anywhere until Peter either gets distracted or gets off. Maybe both. Well. He _does_ have one free hand... 

Peter’s fingers twitch against the base of his throat as he slides his fingers into the kid’s soft hair. “Easy, kiddo,” he says, flexing his trapped hand into a pacifying open palm. “I’ll behave. Promise.”

“Why couldn’t you just _be_ real?” Peter demands, expression cracked open all the way to his core.

Quentin gazes at him, barely paying attention to the way the kid’s hips are instinctively rocking against him and the ridge of his half-interested cock in the confines of the motion-capture suit. Getting a front-row seat to observe Peter’s gradual moral collapse in real-time is infinitely more fascinating.

“I am real, Peter,” he says, offering a slow, almost confused blink. “You’re touching me right now.”

Peter makes an inarticulate noise of frustration, then starts shoving his hips forward in a way that suggests he’s never really done this at all before. Quentin imagines that he’s taken liberties with some pillows now and then. And his hand, when necessary. But it’s the inconsistency and frantic aggression that gives him away. The kid’s just following his instincts, not any sort of rhythm or desire of his own. The thought shouldn’t be as arousing as it is.

_Oh kid...you’re giving me everything all over again. And you don’t even know it._

The hand around his right wrist tightens until Quentin knows he’ll have bruises circling it in short order. The hand at the base of his throat, however, doesn’t stray any higher. It stays exactly where it is; a barely-present threat serving to brace Peter’s weight as he jerks and shudders in the cradle of Quentin’s hips.

“What’re you gonna do when it’s over, Peter?” Quentin arches up to put his mouth next to the kid’s ear while he pets down Peter’s nape with his free hand. “There’s gonna be questions if you just leave me here like this, you know.”

Peter shudders again, though Quentin knows it’s for a far different reason than overstimulation. He exhales a rumbling groan against the shell of Peter’s ear and is promptly shoved back against the siding by the hand braced at his throat. He grins tightly, flexing his fingers through Peter’s sweat-damp curls.

“I hate you-”

Peter’s panting open-mouthed somewhere above the vicinity of his forehead and Quentin very nearly laughs. At least those hips haven’t stopped moving. Peter’s riding him like a damn jockey and there’s still at least two layers of clothing between them.

“_God_, I hate you so much-”

Apparently that’s enough for Peter. He stutters to a halt with a few uncoordinated jerks of his hips and makes a wounded noise as his upper half locks up. Quentin drinks in every second of it. 

The instant Peter’s grip on his wrist slackens, he pulls free and gets both hands in Peter’s hair, applying just enough pressure for the kid’s spine to arch in a spectacular curve. He thrusts up against Peter’s weight, growling low in his throat as Peter squirms dazedly and doesn’t put up much of a fight at all. 

Orgasm is relatively lackluster, and the entry wound pulls uncomfortably as he finishes within the confines of the suit. He grunts, finally releasing Peter’s hair and letting his hands fall to rest on the kid’s thighs. 

It takes Peter a few more moments to properly come back to himself, but when he does, he scrambles upright. 

Quentin peers up at him, idly tracking the near-panic flickering across his face. “You didn’t answer me before, you know.”

Peter startles, cutting a hunted look in his direction. 

“What’re you gonna do, kid?”

That seems to be the million dollar question, since it shuts Peter up for a good thirty seconds. He’s thinking on the fly, or at least trying to, so Quentin allows himself the rare luxury to simply ...wait. He has contingencies, yes, but he’s not sure which of them will be needed here. Not until Peter makes his move.

“If I let you go...will you make me regret it?”

Quentin blinks.

Peter Parker, making a deal with the devil? Will wonders never cease.

“I would think the answer to that is pretty obvious,” Quentin says, showing all his teeth in a quicksilver smirk. 

Peter glares at him. “I don’t trust Fury. At least I can keep an eye on you.”

He reaches up and taps the edge of E.D.I.T.H.’s nearest frame. Oh. Now _that_ is very interesting. What happened to the kid so eager to get rid of an entire defense network and get back to his science field trip that he’d hand it over to a complete stranger?

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Quentin draws his right leg up to rest his arm over the bend of his knee. His side fucking hurts. 

He can’t quite tell if Peter’s treating him like a catch-and-release project, or if it’s the guilt over what they just did that’s eating at him. Either way, it’s working in Quentin’s favor. 

Peter’s staring down at him, conflict written all over that terribly young face. He’s probably trying to act like the adult everybody expects him to be. Well, everybody except Stark and Fury. It’s pretty obvious how they handled the kid.

“Fine,” he says, once he’s apparently come to a decision. “Do whatever it is you’re planning to do. But I’ll be watching.”

Quentin nods idly, offering him a placid sort of half smile. “On your lead, Spider-Man.”

Peter flinches bodily at that. Poor kid. Thinks he has the upper hand and he still doesn’t have a _clue_.

Quentin watches from the floor as Peter limps his way through the wreckage of the drones, then carefully slips through the jagged hole he’d made in the bottom of the catwalk upon his arrival with one fleeting backwards glance. Every step the kid makes before he disappears tastes like victory. 

_He_ did that. He left those marks and that damage on Peter. And Peter will heal faster than he will, of course, but he’s not worried about that. He’s more concerned with that parting flinch. With this new arsenal, he can inflict damage without ever having to lift a finger against the kid.

_Oh Peter…_ Quentin muses as he leverages himself to his feet and limps his own way to the elevator that will take him to the bridge and the remaining operative drones waiting to cloak his escape. _I really am sorry._


End file.
